Wednesday, December 6, 2017

Asa Nisi Masa

How do I decline?
Let me count 
each sagging line,
the groan
when I rise,
or whisk from 
hammed thighs-
who among you
can quietly stride
in valiant pants of corduri?
Not I.

By the way, don't huff rubber cement.

I tried it one time. I felt like I was looking at the world through the wrong end of the binoculars. Plus my girlfriend's voice sounded very slow and manly to me.

So don't ever do it.

Of all my old vices I'm not allowed to have anymore, I miss rubber cement the least.

Are you drawing this while at the laundromat with your students?

No -WAIT! Yes.

Just wondering.

Anyways, you kept leaving the theater to fake pee. You probably only saw twenty minutes of the movie, total. 

In case you are unfamiliar with the series, Daddy's Home 2 is the direct sequel to Daddy's Home.

Marky Mark takes out his Funky Bunch in the first movie, but I don't think he did in the second one. Not sure.

They didn't show it, or anything; it's a family movie.

They just imply that it's out there, and Will Ferrell is looking at it.

The only thing I actually noticed in "Daddy's Home 2" was Mel Gibson's face.

In every scene, it looked like this:

Now, a person's face shouldn't make or break an entire movie, but it sure forces you to stop and think.

Whenever our class goes to the movies, the other staff members put a tremendous amount of pressure on me to enjoy it.

I don't know why the things they think are funny are not so funny to me.

Perhaps I lack a soul.

In the fall of 2012, I was given the honor of being able to pick the movie our class would see that week.

I picked ParaNorman, and the rest is silence.

Well, not silence really.

Ever since then, when movies are discussed, my opinions are instantly shot down.

"What does he know? His favorite movie is ParaNorman!"

"It's not my favorite movie!" I protest.

"Oh yeah? Then what is your favorite, Mr. I Hate Everything?"

"Probably the worst movie ever made or something, ha ha."

"Yeah, what is your wittle favawit movie, wittle weepy sausage man?"  

Don't say Fellini's 8 1/2. Don't say Fellini's 8 1/2.
In fact, don't say Fellini anything.

I know, I know. It's not even funny to me anymore. I'm just a self-centered depressive, stuck in-

"Really?" I asked the three headed composite of my co-workers, based only loosely on their actual personalities and appearances.

So loosely that they should be unrecognizable to prying eyes.

*shhhh no it's not supposed to be you, Jerry, stop blocking the screen with your hand*

"Don't question inspiration," Jerry said. "Just act on it."

"Here, put your finger in this light socket-"


"By the musky gams of Nefertiti!" I howled, in my best imitation of Will Ferell.

"Now spill this hot coffee on yourself two times in a row."


"Great twiddling thumbs of the Bodhisattva! That's hot! Why did I pour the coffee on myself a second time??"

"Alright, to top it off, get your ass stuck in this toilet."



Friday, November 17, 2017

You Will Be Seeing Unusual Accomplishment

Let me tell you one thing, my super17, I'm really bored of drawing me at tables, desks, and in front of computers.

In fact, I'm really bored of drawing me all together.

Why do I have to be the focus of every picture?

The arrogance on me; the audacity to make myself my favorite subject.

 So, to everyone's shock, this post will not contain any drawings of me. Not one.

And it's not going to contain any chairs, desks, and laptops, either. 

Not a single mundane, tedious-to-draw detail that fleshes out a scene. 

To hell with fleshing out, and to hell with me.
The barest minimum. That's the principal all works of art should adhere to.

Don't describe the varietal planing of sidecut valley succulents to me, Cormac McCarthy, just say 'brown grass.' If it's old, simply say it:

"The gutshot drug dealer ran through the old brown grass. He bled on some brown grass, too, but it wasn't as old, and it was in a different part of the valley. The hot, dry valley."

Now that's how you tell a story, by dammit.

Over explaining, over showing; drawing too many walls and chairs, layering on so much thematic depth that the brain must tread water in a sea of many meanings, never once reaching the shore of What the Hell Are You Talking About Island.

Give me the classics, like Venus of Willendorf:

Oh, all right, wife.

The things you think are precious, I can't understand.

And then, sixty years later, a cybernetically enhanced Ken Burns makes a documentary about my life and accomplishments.

"The story of Gweenbrick is really the story of us all." -Shelby Foote

Cue "Ashokan Farewell"